


can we dance upon the tables again?

by girlwiththeradishearrings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet, Dancing, F/M, Modern Era, Sibling Incest, and cute sib incest what more do you want, if you squint i mean it's obviously there, ive watched way too many ballet documentaries for this to be normal, sansa ballerina even rhymes get with it, who doesn't like dance aus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:27:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwiththeradishearrings/pseuds/girlwiththeradishearrings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa is a soloist and Joffrey is her pas de deux partner. There are complications and Robb steps in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can we dance upon the tables again?

Joffrey’s fingers are too tight on her waist and Sansa gasps in pain, trying to mask her flinches with her inhales and exhales, but it has become increasingly harder to disguise her discomfort. He tries to compensate his lack of strength with aggression and it makes him sloppy. She can feel his arms tremble when they progress into their second lift and Sansa’s graceful assent into the air is disrupted by the quake and pinch of Joff’s thumbs into her sides. Her legs tense preemptively for the fall and she sucks in a thimble of air as her slippers jab into the floor. Joff swears and she can feel his hot, rapid breath on her shoulder.

Stealing a glance at his expression in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors across the studio wall, Sansa notes how unpleasant his features become when he’s pissed. She used to think him so evangelic, so picturesque with his blonde hair and pouty lips. Now the sight of him forces the reeking sensation of nausea up her throat.

Madame Mordane is giving Joffrey a sharp look he won’t return. He knows he’s at fault, but he’d never admit to any mistake. Accepting responsibility was never an option for the Lannister darling.

Sansa sweeps wisps of damp hair out of her face, tucking the strays behind her ears. The salt of sweat is brisk on her tongue as she flicks it between her lips, gyrating the bitter taste against her cheeks, rolling it along the roof of her mouth.

Under the guise of adjusting her pointes, Sansa studies her partner with contempt. Fingers sifting over the elastic binding her ankles, Sansa’s eyes flicker from her fingers to Joff’s reflection. 

Madame picks at Joffrey’s performance and strolls around him, adjusting his posture, tapping his arms and chest with her fingers, correcting all his habits. She gives his abdomen a slap with the back of her hand. It caves at the contact, demonstrating just how unprepared and unpracticed he is, and Joffrey flushes with embarrassment.

Stretching her legs and rehearsing the motions of their selection in brief, pensive steps, Sansa gives the two a modicum of privacy. Instead of paying attention to the students hovering along the studio’s perimeter (they give the impression of warming up, yet their eyes are trained on her movements), Sansa chooses to inspect the way her chest inflates and collapses as she draws in each breath. She looks like some tortured racehorse, heaving and struggling for breath.

It frustrates her. She must look effortless.

At the beginning of their session, Joff had done his combinations incorrectly, forcing them to redo most of Act 1, and although Madame hadn’t required Sansa to participate in the repetitions, she felt a sense of duty to follow through. Joffrey was her pas de deux partner and she took pride in her position.

People looked to her for inspiration, for leadership, as if she were their fixed point, some obscure object off in the distance, something to keep their gaze on. Stage mothers dragged their daughters to the windows to watch her practice, classes held in the studio after rehearsals would come in early to observe them dance—their youthful eyes hungrily feasting on Sansa’s sharp, languid feet—hoping to surmise the secret of her success by watching surreptitiously from the corners.

The Stark soloist had an image to maintain within the company. She would not let Joffrey’s inadequacy soil the reputation she had so carefully cultivated in Kings Landings. She was born in the North and not into a privileged dance family as Joff had been, therefore she had to work incredibly hard to earn her place within the company.

He grew up on the Lannister legacy and was weaned with the prestige and exposure that came with the name. He was trained expensively from a young age, given principle roles without having to audition, and rewarded for his conventional efforts with the newest equipment and trainers.

But the nepotism only extended so far, and money wouldn’t recompense for his utter lack of talent.

“You’re not using all your strength,” Mordane began in a somber tone, warming him for her full critique. “You need to use all your power and centralize it before you go into the lift, otherwise it will come out unbalanced. Move with Sansa’s body, not against it.”

Joff glared, upper lip curling into a sneer. “She must have gained weight, I don’t remember her being so fucking heavy the last time.”

Sansa refrained from rolling her eyes. It was typical of him to place the blame on someone else, most likely unto herself. It was childish of him, yet Sansa was beginning to realize immaturity was Joff’s one defining characteristic.

The studio door opened and a spell of cold air rushed in.

Sansa dropped from a grand battement en rond, her extended arm falling from fifth position to her side when she noticed who had entered. The mirror was tricking her, she thinks. It can’t possibly be, he’s supposed to be in the Riverlands training with her uncle for their summer festivals.

“ _Robb_?”

He meets her gaze in the mirror, smiling. “Look at you, fancy toes. All grown up.” She peers over her shoulder, skeptical. Robb’s in sweats and a tshirt, toe socks white against the studio floor. She stares at him, eyes narrowing. Some baser instinct is kicking in and doesn’t allow her to accept him just yet. That’s what being apart of a company does to you. It makes you distrustful, suspicious. Simple requests asked of you often turn into schemes against you, every compliment given has an ulterior motive. _Trust no one_ , Cersei Lannister had whispered into her ear on the day of her arrival. _They’ll fletch the skin from your back if you let them_.

But this is Robb. _Robb_ , she tells herself. _You idiot, he’s your brother, he’d never harm you the way they’ve done. It’s not a trick_.

“Not very friendly anymore, sis? Haven’t you got a hug for me?” He holds his arms away from his waist, suspended. He waits for her to make the next move in their game. She returns his smile, relieved, and prances over, throwing herself into his chest. He catches her as he’s always done, hands light on her waist and he lifts her with ease. He’s stronger than before, Sansa realizes. It usually took him a moment to adjust, a slight stutter before the full lift, yet this time he’s smooth and his arms are steady. Her abdomen is pressed to his torso and she examines him from her new height. Hands like feathers on his shoulders, Sansa purses her lips down at him, critical.

“Shame your hug, this is what I give you, brother.” He returns her smirk without hesitation, familiarity warming his face. His hair’s grown longer since they last saw each other, shaggy and sloppily curled to his ears. The red’s the same shade, though. That aspect of him hasn’t changed. “You’re stronger,” Sansa admits, suddenly very proud of his progress.

“You as well. A year ago that pretty grand battement would have given you trouble. Now look at you. You’re lovely, Sansa.” She blushes beneath his praise. She could take the falsities fed to her here, they were expected, she was a soloist with Joff now and that came with a certain amount of notoriety, but coming from Robb it carried weight. He wouldn’t say it if he didn’t believe it. He was stubborn like that. Truth and honor were the death of good men, but Sansa appreciated her brother’s other-worldly valiance anyways.

She wraps her legs around him, slackening her body, and leans down to press a kiss to his forehead. He growls as she does so, but endures. “Thank you,” she says into his hair. “I missed you, you know.”

He repositions with her, clasping his hands together against her back, leveraging their weight. “Four months is a long time, sis. You’ve done this to yourself. Uncle Edmure would have loved to have you, he’d never have refused his niece. Not the beautiful _Sansa Stark_.”

“Shut up. You know I had to accept this offer. Once in—“

“—‘In a lifetime,’ yes, I know. Doesn’t change the fact that mother’s been a mess with you so far away.”

Sansa frowns, lips parting. “She’s the one who supported my career the most, she told me she understood. _Robb_!” He’s chucking at her now, “Stop it! _Behave_.”

Madame interrupts Robb’s chastisement with an “ _Ahhmm!_ ” and Sansa drops the smile from her mouth without hesitation, unlocking Robb’s hands from around her back. She slips down from her perch around his waist, and stands erect and attentive, gaze pinned to the floor.

Tendrils of red hair droop into her eyes, yet Sansa dares not move.

“Your brother, Miss Stark?” Madame asks sharply.

“It is, Madame. Forgive me, his visit was unanticipated,” Sansa rushes an apology, looking up to accept whatever damage she’s caused.

Mordane is staring at Robb with a curious expression. She looks from him to Joffrey, standing tightly wound and furious beside Madame, purpled in the face. _She’s been laying into him good. All those skipped classes are finally biting him where it counts._ Sansa feels a sick sense of glee.

“Robb Stark, is that correct?” She inquires. Robb nods. “Have you been instructed in pas de deux?” Robb nods in confirmation again, or so Sansa guesses. He is behind her, his presence giving her a new thread of confidence under Madame’s harsh eye. “Hmm. Where do you train?”

“I’m currently studying under Edmure Tully and the Blackfish at Riverrun Theatre. I’m staying with them over summer for the equinox festivals.”

“A valuable institution,” Madame commends in a set voice, unwilling to lessen the severity of her stare. Robb is doing well. “Could I ask a favor of you, Mr. Stark?”

“Of course, Madame.”

_Good boy_ , Sansa thinks, relieved at his quick manners. Madame didn’t respond well to flattery, yet propriety got her all hot and bothered. And if their mother taught them anything it was decorum; Robb was well versed in courtesy, as was Sansa.

“Might I be so bold as to request your assistance with Miss Sansa? I need a lad to help instruct Joffrey, he seems to not understand what I’m trying to explain.” Sansa’s mouth stays firmly shut out of habit, but Joffrey does not possess the same amount of self-control. His face displays a vibrant shade of maroon, lips quivering in anger, jaw clenched. He glares at Robb, as if he’s the source of his humiliation, with nothing short of hatred.

“What would you have me do, Madame?”

Mordane flashes Robb a fleeting tilt of her lips to express gratitude. “I would like you to demonstrate with Sansa how to do a proper cambré press lift, Joff’s having difficulty. Would you be so kind as to assist us? I would be incredibly grateful.”

“I would be privileged,” Robb replies and Sansa can hear the charisma in his voice. _Charming bastard_.

Madame looks to Sansa, her eyes suddenly less warm. She is commandeering once more. The instructor sheds her harsh skin less often now, yet all it takes is politeness and decent genetics to loosen her.

“Would you take your brother through the warm ups and brief him on the scenes? We’re starting at Act 3, those lifts will be hard for Joffrey and he needs to understand, I’ll not have him dropping you.” Mordane gives Joff a pointed glare before departing to the pianist, requesting the music for Act 3.

Sansa grabs Robb’s arm without a nary backwards glance and leads him to the barre. They do several stretches and ankle rotations before Sansa speaks.

“Are you sure you can do these, Robb? You weren’t lying?”

“My sister doesn’t have faith in me?” He shoots her an aggrieved look as he works the barre.

She sighs. “I have too much faith, brother. I just don’t want you dropping me.” Robb snorts into his calf, pulled up vertically to his side. He has a proper turnout.

“I’ve been practicing these lifts with both Jeyne and Roslin all spring. We’re doing selections of _Romeo & Juliet_ in June and July. I have yet to drop either of them,” he flashes her a grin. “Like when we were little, yeah?” She smiles in fond remembrance and they fall silent, easing their bodies into graceful, lithe things once more.

 

* * *

 

Robb and Sansa are standing together at the center of the studio, Joffrey beside Madame in front of the mirrors. The students observe the pair from along the walls in starved silence, their bodies leaning forward eagerly. Any pretense of warming up has been abandoned, and they are honest about what has drawn them in.

Joffrey observes Sansa and Robb as an outsider, tracking them with his cat’s eyes in equal parts envy and derision. Sansa knows it is because no matter how much he pretends not to care, Robb is capable of what he is not. Robb’s arms do not crumble beneath her weight. He lifts her with a natural dexterity that cannot be practiced and his hands feel assured and staid against her body. Robb has achieved something incredible and has perfected the motions in a way Joffrey never could.

Sansa can see her partner’s frustration beneath layers of scorn and it makes her glad.

_Robb has always been better than you, he has worked for this sliver of glory whereas you have inherited yours. You are undeserving_ , Sansa thinks, impassioned, body tingling with anticipation and she wonders if the glow of euphoria is perceptible to everyone else. 

Robb’s fingers are nimble, ghosting along her waist are she twists her body into numerous pirouettes. Her eyes meet in the mirror at each rotation and she feels confident. Robb is there—he will guide her. They are the same hands that she’s felt throughout her entire adolescence. Since she was four, Robb has been beside her, ready for her fall. His arms are merely an extension of herself, ascending seamlessly into each distinct position. _The cambré press. The presage_.

Sansa readies herself into an arabesque: pointe firm, balancing her entire body, arms spread delicately in the front and back of her as she extends her left leg behind her.

Robb’s right hand is at her waist, warm and secure, while his left is adjusted underneath her working thigh. He lifts her above himself, over his head. He has yet to tremble. Her standing leg then curls into her extended leg, like a bird’s, tucking adroitly to her body.

Sansa wishes she could smile. The surge of success and emotion are thrumming so acutely through her body, she feels inhibited by the common customs. She must refrain. Mordane would not be pleased.

So she presses her lips together and allows Robb to lower her back into an arabesque, his chest laden with breath behind her, so close she can feel the heat of him against her shoulder blades.

Sansa hears the grin in Robb’s breath. The lighter pitch as he exhales, the way his eyes seem to fall so forceful on her back when he holds her.

Mordane’s lips resemble something of the same nature, quirked beneath wrinkled skin. “Very well, Starks. Very well,” she admits, hands clasped firmly in front of her. “Yes,” she offers, meeting Sansa’s eyes, “Indeed.”

Sansa waits until her pointe is firmly on the ground before permitting herself to grin.

**Author's Note:**

> I've just been watching too many ballet documentaries. It's an issue, probably... I can't tell at this stage. 
> 
> Robb/Sansa always pains me but in a really good way, I just wanted to write them happy in something. 
> 
> Title comes from the song "Laura" by Bat For Lashes. 
> 
> Hope it was good? Sorry for any mistakes? Idk if they'll be more in this verse. It might be fun...?


End file.
